


the sum of your broken parts

by sky_somedays



Category: Gone Girl (2014), Gone Girl - Gillian Flynn
Genre: F/F, F/M, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized Misogyny, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:06:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26195359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sky_somedays/pseuds/sky_somedays
Summary: God, Margo needs some steadiness in her life right now, but she can’t pretend she’ll get it from Rhonda Boney. She doesn’t deserve it.
Relationships: Amy Elliott Dunne/Nick Dunne, Rhonda Boney/Margo Dunne
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	the sum of your broken parts

**Author's Note:**

> started in 2018, finally finished in quarantine lmao.
> 
> title from be your shadow by the wombats.
> 
> tw in the end notes.

Margo can’t handle the reality of her life anymore.

It’s been eleven months since Amy returned. Eleven months, one pregnancy, two tiny wrinkled babies – because Amy had twins, of course. A boy and a girl. Margo had been at the hospital when they were born. Her stomach was a solid knot, her eyes burning from suppressed tears. Rand and Marybeth were sitting two rows of chairs away from her. They were carefully ignoring her. After exactly seven hours Nick had exploded through the double doors in a hospital gown, his expression wild. “They’re here,” he had said, and his voice was – it was –

“Healthy?” Rand had asked. He and his wife were on their feet, clutching at each other, eyes shining. Margo realized, then, that she had been hoping for something truly awful. She felt evil.

“Yeah, healthy, all healthy. Mother and babies.” Nick disappeared back inside. Margo felt like she was drowning, drowning.

After the twins, things are worse than before. Compressed. Like Margo is a thumb in a thumbscrew, each time she’s forced to think about Amy it twists tighter. Nick makes it to The Bar once a week – a standing business meeting, discussing the direction of the franchise, signing things. The pretense is enough for Amy; she allows it. Nick comes by on his way to get diapers, formula, wipes. He looks calmer than before. He talks about his children. He sounds happy, or the closest thing to it. He shows Margo pictures on his phone, pictures of tiny red faces, lying on Amy’s chest, cradled in Amy’s arms. He skips over the photos that show Amy’s face but Margo knows that they’re there. She doesn’t know what to do with that knowledge so she pretends she doesn’t have it.

“You should meet them,” Nick says, every week. “You should come by the house. They’re – they’re so beautiful, Go.”

“Yeah,” Margo says, between glugs of bourbon. “Maybe. When things wind down, y’know, it’s been busy.”

Nick doesn’t push her but she knows she’ll have to go eventually. He’s disappointed that she doesn’t want to, and she can feel him slipping away, already unwilling to juggle the two different spheres of his life. Already taking his place by Amy’s side, in the life that Amy has constructed for them. It’s a thought that keeps her up at night, drunk and in agony over it. Trying to picture Amy’s face, her smug, motherly smile. The mother of Nick’s children. Margo’s sister-in-law, linked by blood as well as marriage. Margo lets herself lose it for the first couple of weeks after the twins are born. She cries herself to sleep most nights, cries so hard it breaks blood vessels in her face, the kind of crying that leaves her exhausted and sick. Then she stops allowing herself that luxury. Her old standby when things get tough - drinking - is an easier, less tiring option. She imagines tying a tourniquet around the offending emotions, the bulging limb of feeling she can’t escape. Watching it shrivel up and die and fall away. Drinking might do that, one day, she reasons to herself. It’s worth a try.

She limps on like this. It’s not really living; it’s treading water at best. Timekeeping. Waiting. This is all she can do, now. She’s there when Nick needs her. Her lot in life - but she catches herself when she starts to feel resentful. Her baby brother needs her, needs her to be his voice of reason. So she treads on.

Two months after the twins are born, she sees Rhonda Boney in the Costco by the freeway, selecting a set of free weights from a shelf. She’s in plainclothes. Margo feels like she can take a breath for the first time since the hospital. She lurks near the mouth of the aisle, hiding behind a display of fake potted trees, and watches. She trails Rhonda until she finishes her shopping and leaves. It’s the most acute relief she’s felt in months; she forgets, most of the time, that there are other people who know what’s happening. She forgets she isn’t alone. She imagines catching up to Rhonda in the parking lot, offering to help her load her things into her flatbed. Rhonda drives a truck when she’s not on duty. Margo has seen her in it before, the windows rolled down, arm catching the sun. Sometimes she has a cigarette between her fingers. Margo would help her stow her bags, return her cart, then - what? Would they catch up like old friends? They don’t even know each other. She stays where she is, starts ticking things off her own shopping list.

Margo had some understanding of her own damage from her brief flirtation with therapy. She had tried it back when she lived in New York. Things had been dicey with her for a while and she didn’t know what else to do. She had booked herself an intake appointment while shame coiled in her gut, hot and acidic. When she finally went, she discovered that her list of problems was a long one. Growing up around a bastard dad and watching his derision towards her mom had warped her understanding of male-female relationships, allegedly. Daddy issues, internalized misogyny, lots of walls. Humour as a coping mechanism. A prolonged drinking problem. Funneling all of her neuroses into her relationship with Nick, veering from doting twin to something else when things get tough. Margo doesn’t think about therapy much, and when she does she ends up with a drink in her hand. It had only been a handful of sessions, leaving each time with homework and a headache. Margo didn’t miss school and she didn’t have the energy for extra work. She quit within a few months.

The drive back to The Bar is only fifteen minutes, but Margo is desperate for a drink by the time she pulls into the lot. She grabs the most important bags - toilet roll, air freshener, a multi-pack of pop-tarts - and leaves the rest. She had closed up early for the day because she just couldn’t take it. Couldn’t take another damn moment of customers trailing in with wide eyes and camera phones held aloft, whispering to each other. Pointing at Margo. It’s worse on weekends, and it’s almost the one year anniversary of Amy’s return. Margo slips inside and turns the lock behind her. She doesn’t care if they’re losing business. _I’ve earned this_ , she thinks grimly as she unloads the bags into the storage room. _I’ve earned a fucking break_.

She eats pop-tarts and drinks a few fingers of whiskey, watches baseball on the bar TV. There’s a flurry of knocking at the door as the sun sets, a few calls from would-be customers: “Anyone in there? You guys open?” She ignores them until they leave. _Fucking leeches_. She pours herself more whiskey.

The thing about timekeeping is that Margo’s bad at it. Before she realizes, she’s drank half a bottle and it’s after midnight. There’s a bad comedy show on TV that she’s ignoring, and she’s slumped against the bar with her cheek mashed into her hand. She should go to sleep. There’s a cot in the back that she uses more than her own bed nowadays, to cut down on commute time and allow for easier access to liquor, but it’s old and the springs hurt her back. She decides she should go for a walk.

Outside, crickets loud and sharp in her ears, gravel under her shoes, she takes a deep breath. It’s warm. Damp. Street lamps throw out pleasantly yellow halos of light, doubling in her vision. She’s bleary and very drunk but she can walk steady, has always been able to hold her alcohol well. She can usually drink people under the table. She can out-drink Nick, though she rarely makes a show of it. She remembers one time, not long after the investigation wrapped, when she did, gloating and crowing. She’d had an audience - Rhonda - and just wanted a little validation. Nick had gotten quiet and surly and she had ended up backpedaling.

Margo had never really trusted Rhonda Boney during the investigation. The final straw was the night of her arrest, torn from her own home while Nick stood by helplessly. Rhonda had come by the holding cell after. She had looked resigned, mostly. Her mouth was a hard line. Margo had crowded against the bars, demanded to know where Nick was. “We arrested him,” Rhonda said, and Margo’s whole world was slipping, tilted on its axis. “Your lawyer will have you both out on bond soon, though.” She sounded like she was trying to be reassuring. She was kind, underneath the stoicism that the job demanded. She was smart, forceful, unrelenting - but she was also kind. It set Margo’s teeth on edge. Even as a part of her craved the simple comfort of that - kindness from another woman - it sent her stomach spinning with revulsion. “ _Bitch_ ,” she’d hissed under her breath as Rhonda turned to leave. If Rhonda heard, she didn’t show it.

After the investigation, of course, things were different. Margo didn’t have room to hold grudges like that anymore; they felt frivolously personal, given the circumstances. Rhonda had even made a few appearances at The Bar after Tanner left town and the three of them had had consolation drinks, Nick and Rhonda and Margo, slumped over and defeated. There was nothing much to say so they wallowed. Eventually Rhonda stopped coming. She had work to do, she said, she needed to move on.

It’s not like there was any meaningful connection there, not really. So Margo isn’t sure why it’s Rhonda’s house that she stumbles to, the muggy summer air clinging to her skin. She’s sweating, pushes her hair out of her eyes. Her glasses are fogged at the corners.

“What are you doing,” she says, out loud. She’s not a talk-to-herself drunk usually. “What the fuck are you doing, Dunne.”

There are three steps up to Rhonda’s house. Margo manages them fine. She yanks open the screen door a little too hard and catches herself on it, winces as the hinges squeal. After a moment, she bangs once, twice, three times on the front door. Then again and again. The front light flicks on. Margo rears back, tries to compose herself, aware of her disheveled hair and whisky breath. She wipes her palms on the front of her shirt.

Rhonda opens the door, looks surprised to find Margo there. She’s wearing a wifebeater, no bra - Margo yanks her eyes back up above collarbone-level, heat blooming across her cheeks. She can’t remember why she came here.

“Margo. What are you doing here?” Rhonda’s voice is husky with sleep. She leans her hand on the doorjamb, her arm locked at the elbow, other hand on the door handle. It’s such a male stance, Margo thinks, brain fuzzy from the booze. It’s the kind of stance Margo herself often attempts but knows she can’t pull off. It makes her feel small and girlish, standing on Rhonda’s doorstep. The familiar bitter fury rises in her throat.

“Fuggedit,” she mumbles, stuffing her hands in the pockets of her shorts. “S’late, woke you, m’gonna go.”

“Hey, hey, wait.” Rhonda pushes open her door, moves aside. Beckons. “C’mon in. You look like you could use some water.”

Margo barely hesitates, and she hates herself for that. She goes inside, brushes past Rhonda, tries not to imagine that her shoulder skims across her chest. She waits for Rhonda to lock up then follows her to the back of the house, to the kitchen. Rhonda points her to a chair and she sits. It’s a relief to be told what to do. To not have to decide.

“You got any beer?” Margo asks. She’s jittery, she needs a drink in her hand, needs something to soothe her nerves. Rhonda raises an eyebrow, shrewd, but she retrieves two bottles from the fridge. Margo watches her move around the kitchen, her movements deft and efficient. She fills a glass with tap water and sets it in front of Margo, then uncaps the bottles on the edge of the kitchen table. Margo watches, allows herself to be impressed. Back in college she saw a girl do that for the first time at a frat party. The girl had handed the beer to her boyfriend, and Margo had curled in on herself, buried in her red solo cup, jealousy climbing up her throat.

“You shouldn’t be drinking any more tonight,” Rhonda tells her as she sits down, breaking Margo out of her miserable reverie. “I want you to finish that water first.” She takes a pull on her own beer, puts Margo’s in the middle of the table. Uncapped and in reach. Margo can choose to listen or not.

Margo picks up the water. She swallows it all down quickly, like it tastes bad. She lets out a burp when she sets the glass down, reaches for her beer.

Rhonda’s just looking at her, studying her. Serious brown eyes. No judgment, just mild curiosity. It’s like a salve on a burn, to be looked at like that. Margo could cry.

“You look like you’ve had a hell of a night,” Rhonda says, and drinks some more beer.

Margo inclines her head, rolls her bottle between her hands. “Always havin’ a hell of a night.” She hopes she isn’t slurring.

“I can imagine.” Rhonda sighs, leans back in her chair. Margo fixes her gaze on the peeling label of her bottle. ”It’s a real fucked up situation you’re in.”

“Nick’s got it worse,” Margo says automatically. “I’m fine.”

“Sure,” Rhonda allows, easily. “He also signed up for this. You didn’t.”

Margo shrugs, drinks. Drinks again. She peels at the bottle label, trying to contain the adhesive to the paper, her hands clumsy against the sweating glass.

Rhonda is just watching her. It’s comforting and disturbing. It has Margo squirming.

“I should go,” she says, aimlessly. Another swig. She’s nearly finished the bottle already. _Fucking alcoholic_.

“No, I don’t think you should. You should stay the night.” If Rhonda notices Margo’s jumbled confused expression, she gracefully ignores it. “I’ve got a pull-out couch with your name on it.”

“Don’t wanna trouble you.”

“Well, you’re already in my kitchen drinking my beer at one in the morning. That ship’s sailed, I think.”

Margo palms at her eyes. “Fuck, sorry. Sorry I woke you up, I shouldn’t have come here.”

“I’d rather you here than passed out in a ditch somewhere.” Rhonda levers herself upright, refills Margo’s glass. “You drink this, I’ll make up the bed. You’re lucky - I did laundry yesterday.”

“Do I get to pick the sheets?” Margo asks. She hasn’t joked with anyone for so long, it feels strange and difficult.

“Oh, you’re getting my ugliest ones. No choice.”

Margo finishes her beer and then drinks more water, listening to the comfortable, homey sound of Rhonda padding around in the living room. The squeak of a pull-out being extended. The soft sounds of bedding being unfurled, pillows being plumped. Margo feels like she’s at a sleepover, waiting for another girl’s mother to finish making up a row of air mattresses. She casts around Rhonda’s kitchen – warm and welcoming even in the semi-darkness of the stove’s fume hood light. It looks lived-in in a way that Margo envies.

“Alright,” Rhonda says, reappearing. “All done. You finished that water?”

Margo gulps the rest of it down. Flashes a thumbs-up.

“Alright,” Rhonda says again. “Come on.”

Margo follows her to the living room, examines the small pull-out. A floral blanket. Strawberry Shortcake sheets. She laughs despite herself. “These are your ugliest sheets? I loved Strawberry Shortcake as a kid.”

“Huh, really. Can’t picture it.”

“Yeah, bit girly, right. Guess I didn’t know any better.”

Rhonda shrugs. “My ex liked Strawberry Shortcake. Always thought we’d have a daughter, that’s why we bought these.”

Rhonda doesn’t volunteer personal anecdotes much. Margo can’t help it – she’s interested. “Your ex-husband liked Strawberry Shortcake? No wonder you divorced him.”

There’s a pause, and Margo can tell, through the booze fug still clouding her brain, that Rhonda is weighing her options. Making a decision. When she speaks, it’s slow, deliberate. “Never had a husband. And she left me.”

Margo knows she has to respond correctly, quickly, but she can’t find any words. Rhonda is watching her. Eventually she manages: “Ex-wife?”

“Well, we never got the thing done officially, obviously. For all intents and purposes we were married.”

Margo is out of her depth here. She doesn’t know what to do with this topic, out in the open, here in Rhonda’s dark living room in the wee hours. It’s so personal. Margo’s stomach flips, thinking about Rhonda and her ex, picking out sheets for their hypothetical daughter. She’s nauseous. She can’t tell if it’s from the drinking or not.

“Anyway.” Rhonda pats the pillow. “You sleep it off. I’ve got work in the morning, so if I’m not here when you wake up, just lock the door on your way out.”

“I’ll leave when you leave,” Margo says, finally back on solid ground. “I’ll wake up.”

Rhonda doesn’t look convinced. “Well, alright. Sleep tight.”

Margo waits for Rhonda to disappear up the stairs before she strips off her shoes and shorts, wriggles her bra out of one of the arm holes of her t-shirt. By the time she folds herself under the covers she’s already half asleep.

She wakes up to an empty house. She half expects a note or something, but there’s nothing but a water bottle next to the pull-out. Margo’s head is throbbing, her eyes crusted over. She drinks half the water and pats around on the mattress for her phone. It’s dead, of course. Her charger is back at The Bar. There doesn’t seem anything else to do but get dressed and leave, so that’s what she does, stumbling blearily out into the morning sunshine. The walk back to The Bar seemed much faster and more interesting the night before; it’s uncomfortable and long, now, and she stops halfway to retch miserably into a trash can. Finally, _finally_ , she arrives, lets herself in the back and goes straight to the cot. It’s significantly less comfortable than Rhonda’s pull-out. She realizes she’s still holding the water bottle, and manages to finish it before she slips into sleep again.

She wakes up to banging on the door.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she mumbles, wiping drool from her face with her wrist. She pulls her phone from her pocket but it’s still dead, she’d forgotten to charge it. She gets up, the room tilting out of orbit as she acclimates. Woozy, head-rush, she braces herself on the wall. Another loud knock. “Goddamn bastard.”

She lurches out of the back room and yanks open the front door, ready to give whatever asshole trauma tourist was there a colourful piece of her mind. But it’s Rhonda standing there, still in her work clothes, holding a paper cup of coffee. She peers at Margo like she expects her to fall over. “How’re you doing? I swung by your place just now, no answer, so I thought I’d check here.” She holds out the coffee.

Margo takes it, blinking stupidly. “I, uh. There’s a bed in the back. I crash here a lot.”

Rhonda doesn’t look surprised. She cranes her neck to look past Margo, into the dark interior of The Bar. “Nobody else working?”

“No, just me losing money.”

“I think you’re off the hook this week.” Rhonda smiles wryly.

“Want to come in?” Margo asks, remembering her manners. “A drink?” It’s all she has to offer.

“I was gonna head home, beer on the back porch. You’re welcome to join me.” Rhonda tucks her hands into her pockets. If it weren’t for her smooth, amiable expression, Margo might think she’s a little nervous.

Margo suddenly wants nothing more than to sit on a porch with a beer. It sounds heavenly. It sounds downright normal, the kind of thing she can’t expect for herself anymore. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.”

Rhonda jerks her head towards her truck, parked across the street. “You want a ride?”

“Yeah, I probably shouldn’t drive.”

The ride back to Rhonda’s is quiet. The radio is on low, casual background noise. When the DJ makes some comment about the upcoming _very important anniversary_ , Rhonda calmly switches the channel to a crooning country song. Margo breathes a sigh of relief. She’s tempted to kick off her shoes and put her feet on the dashboard. There’s something about the afternoon sun, the quiet music, the remnants of her hangover, that reminds Margo of the good parts of high school. She stares out the window, watches the buildings slide past, lets herself pretend she’s sixteen and catching a ride to the mall with a boy she’s considering dating. She glances sidelong at Rhonda; wisps of hair are escaping her ponytail and dancing in the breeze from the open windows. Margo looks away, a sick swooping feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Rhonda’s house is small and cheerful. Margo has never really looked at it before, has only ever thought of it as a point on a map. There are well-stocked flowerbeds and a square of freshly cut grass, a bird bath. When Rhonda pulls the truck into the driveway a small cloud of sparrows disband from a bird feeder hung from the branch of a young tree. “You didn’t strike me as a gardener,” Margo says.

“I don’t have much of a green thumb. Anyone can sow wildflower seeds.”

When they step inside, the first thing Margo realizes is that the pull-out is just as she left it, covers mussed and tangled. One of the pillows is on the floor. Margo is often proud of her sloppiness - the anti-priss, she has better things to be worrying about. Now, she feels a flush of embarrassment as the oversight. “Sorry,” she mutters. “I should’ve tidied.”

Rhonda shakes her head. “Your mama never made you clean your room, huh?” She’s teasing, her tone light, but Margo recoils like it was a jab. Rhonda either doesn’t notice, or pretends not to.

“Beer?”

“Please.”

Rhonda retrieves two bottles and Margo follows her to the back of the house. There are photographs on the walls here, faces Margo doesn’t recognize; Rhonda’s extended family, she assumes. She realizes she is searching for anyone who looks like a partner, anything that looks romantic. Nothing.

The back porch is small but cozy, two lounge chairs and a bench with plush cushions. A painted wooden table with some candles and an ash tray. Potted geraniums. A trellis along one side, nailed to the railing, supporting a shock of honeysuckle and a string of lights. “Cute,” Margo says, and she means it. It’s so lived in, comfortable and familiar even though Margo has never been here before. Margo’s own life feels so unfamiliar to her now that any scrap of normal, good, decent existence makes her nostalgic like it used to be hers.

“I try.”

“Good day at work?” Margo asks, sprawling on one of the lounge chairs. “Solve any mysterious kidnappings?”

It’s risky, joking about it like this, but Rhonda doesn’t seem bothered. “We’re working on an armed robbery right now. Pretty cut and dry – the place had a security camera.” She hands Margo a beer, sits on the bench. She’s wearing no-nonsense slacks and a collared shirt. Her badge is clipped to her belt. Margo take a pull on her beer and watches as Rhonda removes her badge, tosses it on the table. She unbuttons her shirt and shrugs out of it, unlaces her cop boots. Socked feet and undershirt. When she pulls the tie from her hair, rakes a hand through it, spilling golden brown around her face, Margo tears her gaze away.

“How was your day?” Rhonda asks as she settles back, cradling her beer. “I figured you’d be suffering.”

“I woke up, crawled to The Bar, and went back to sleep. I barely know what time it is.” Margo tips her bottle like she’s cheers-ing her mess of a life. “I’ve felt worse, believe it or not.”

“I do believe it.”

“Yeah, you would. You get it.” Margo taps at the armrest of her chair. “I forget that, sometimes, y’know? That it’s not just me who knows how fucked up everything really is. I feel like I’m – like I’m going fucking crazy, sometimes. People come in The Bar wanting pictures and stories and autographs and it’s just, it’s like – they don’t understand. They don’t _know_.”

Rhonda nods slowly. “You can’t escape it, either. I told you as soon as you franchised the place that you should take a step back.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, but you were drunk for most of our chats then. I don’t blame you.”

It had somehow never occurred to Margo that she might have had interactions with Rhonda that she can’t recall. She and Nick drowned their sorrows so often in the early days of Amy’s reappearance that it’s all one big, sick blur. When Nick wasn’t allowed to join her – which was frequently – she would drink with anyone who would put up with her, and a few times that had been Rhonda.

“I should’ve listened,” she says now. “That’s some sensible advice.”

“I’m known for my sensible advice.”

Margo drinks some more, looks out across the porch to the back yard, the flowerbeds full of hostas. Sensible is a good word for Rhonda. Everything about her in sensible, no-nonsense. Intentional. Margo likes that. She’s drawn to sensibility, common sense, the kind of people who will eventually decide that Margo is too much hassle.

“So how are you dealing with everything?” Margo asks, shaking herself slightly. “Amy. She must – hate you. I know she hates me. Does it –?”

“Scare me?” Rhonda looks thoughtful. “I guess a little. But I don’t think I’m in her cross-hairs. And what would she do to me? I don’t have a family for her to ruin.”

“Career,” Margo shrugs. “Or – I mean, she’s killed before. I think about that a lot. Boxcutter, you can buy one anywhere.”

“Let her try. I think she’s smart enough to know I’ve taken precautions.” Rhonda grins wolfishly. Margo’s skin prickles.

“Good.”

“How about you? Are you scared?”

Margo doesn’t often let herself think about it, but she is. She shrugs again. “Not really. She knows Nick would – I mean, she needs Nick to be, you know. Docile. Easy to control. She won’t touch me.”

“You scared for Nick?”

“Always.” Margo shudders involuntarily. “But – I don’t really think she would hurt him, not now. She has everything she wanted. She’s – her life is perfect.”

“Fuck her.” Rhonda doesn’t swear much. It sounds novel in her voice. “She’s a piece of work.”

“She’s a fucking _bitch_ ,” Margo says, the familiar rage spitting forth. “A fucking _cunt_.”

Rhonda’s eyebrows raise slightly, but otherwise does not react. Margo feels a pinch of guilt for the outburst. She forgets herself when talking to other women. If she had said that in the presence of a man he would have laughed.

“We should talk about something else,” Rhonda says after a while, her voice harmonizing with the whine of cicadas and a distant lawn mower. Everything sounds so good to Margo, here on Rhonda’s porch. “Anything else.”

“Yeah. Uh.” Margo laughs self-consciously. “Like what?”

“You a dog person?”

“Sure. Isn’t everyone?”

“Good answer.” Rhonda sets her beer down and unlocks her phone, starts scrolling. “Gil got a new puppy. Golden retriever, he’s a stupid little thing but he’s cute. I’ve got pictures if you wanna see ‘em.”

Margo sits up, surprised to find herself genuinely interested. “I always wanted a golden as a kid.”

Rhonda pats the bench beside her, not looking up from the screen. “C’mere.”

Margo hesitates, a split second decision, before swinging her legs over the edge of the lounge chair. It’s three quick steps to the bench, her heart in her throat suddenly, a heady combination of dread and hope. She sits down. Rhonda angles the phone her way, leaning in slightly, _see, look_.

They’re touching at the shoulder, skin on skin. Margo hasn’t felt like this – this desperate, unreasonable want – in years. It’s disorienting. She can barely focus on the pictures.

The puppy is adorable and floppy, big ears and big paws. Rhonda swipes through picture after picture – the puppy chasing the spray of a hose, staring lovingly up at Gil, taking treats excitedly from an outstretched hand. The pictures were all obviously taken by Rhonda; Gil and his wife and their dog, their manicured lawn.

“He’s really cute,” Margo says.

“His name’s Rosco. Not much of a fan of that myself but I won’t hold it against him.”

The next picture is different, taken by someone else. It’s of Rhonda. She’s in motion, blurry around the edges, moving backwards as she dangles treats for Rosco. Rosco is mid-jump. Rhonda is laughing. She’s barefoot, a beer wedged in the back pocket of her jeans.

“Tiffany didn’t tell me she was taking that.” Rhonda sounds a little bashful, but doesn’t swipe away, lets the picture sit there for a moment.

“It’s a good picture,” Margo says without thinking. “I – I mean, you look like you’re having fun.”

Rhonda snorts. “Tiffany is trying to convince me to start online dating. Think that could be my profile picture?”

“Yeah.” Margo pauses. “Do they know? About your ex?”

Rhonda swipes to the next picture, a close-up of Rosco’s face, tongue lolling. Her voice is steady when she answers. “No. I think Gil suspects, what with him being a detective and all. Tiffany means well but she’s not a perceptive lady.”

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked, that’s none of my business.”

“Margo.” God, she loves the sound of her name in Rhonda’s mouth. She turns, finds Rhonda looking at her. “It’s okay. You can ask.”

They’re touching from shoulder to hip. Rhonda puts her phone on the armrest, slow deliberate movements, and rests her hand on Margo’s knee. Margo gets a full-body ripple of goosebumps.

She is aware, suddenly, that she hasn’t showered in days. That she is wearing the clothes she slept in, hangover clothes, sweaty and rank. Her hair feels oily. Her mouth tastes like beer but she’s sure her breath is disgusting. She feels foul, sitting on Rhonda’s nice bench on Rhonda’s nice porch, the tinkling of a wind chime and the scent of honeysuckle on the breeze. Something not meant to be here.

“I have to go,” she says abruptly. She stands so fast that Rhonda twitches, almost a flinch. “I just remembered –” She doesn’t have an excuse ready, so she just lets it hang.

“Sure,” Rhonda says, easy, calm. Like she was expecting it. “I’ll walk you out.”

“No, no, it’s okay. I’ll – it’s okay.” Margo falters. _You’re being rude_. “Thanks for, um. The hospitality. I’ll see you around.”

“Anytime,” Rhonda says, but Margo is already through the door, trying to keep her pace reasonable as she passes the pictures of Rhonda’s family, the unmade pull-out, out the front door. Her legs are carrying her on autopilot, walking as fast as she can without breaking into a run.

_Coward, coward, coward_ , chants the voice in her head. Margo squeezes her eyes shut to stop the tears from starting. “Fucking coward.” She’s not sure who she’s talking about. She hasn’t felt this particular brand of despair since New York. She’s forgotten how to process it, how to weather it. She’s lost the map to navigate this territory.

New York had been hard on Margo. She had no issue finding boyfriends, men who would take her on dates and fuck her properly and would give up easily when she missed a phone call or two. She dropped names to Nick a lot – _seeing Brian, later. No, not Jason, that was last month. Chris was the month before that. Andrew was last year – wow, you’re behind_. She could tell that Nick was impressed. Having a sister who was more a player than him was obviously a novelty. She never introduced Nick to any of her conquests, of course, but she trotted out their names and stories, divulged kiss-and-tell details without guilt.

The first time she took a woman home, she had a panic attack in the bathroom the next morning, kicked the woman out as soon as she could breathe properly, and drank herself into a stupor. Nick never heard about that. The second time, she went back to the woman’s place and snuck out as the sun rose across the city, walking home with sweat drying across the back of her neck. After that she refused to keep count.

Margo’s therapist had tried to bring up women several times. Their final session had culminated in the question that Margo has worked to ignore ever since: _why do you keep your encounters with women a secret from your brother, the person you tell everything to?_ She hadn’t had an answer. She had felt the treacherous tears threaten to spill, angry tears. Nick’s voice in her head: _why the fuck are you crying?_ So she had left. Got up, ignoring the therapist’s protests, crossed the room with the plush carpet, opened the eggshell-blue door and passed the waiting room with its small crowd of crazies. They’re all women – women dabbing at their eyes with Kleenex, women picking at their own fingers, women whispering to one another in hushed voices. Margo had felt a swoop of nausea. _Fucking crazy bitches_ , she had thought, ignored the way it punched at her own gut. She didn’t belong here with them. She could deal with her own problems.

If she’s honest, Margo doesn’t expect to see Rhonda again. It seems like an odd outlier of her life, an isolated incident nestled in the long hot days of the summer. She does her best to forget about it, to forget the way breathing came easier when Rhonda was around, even as her stomach roiled with anxiety. To forget Rhonda’s steady gaze and steady hands. God, Margo needs some steadiness in her life right now, but she can’t pretend she’ll get it from Rhonda Boney. She doesn’t deserve it.

So when Rhonda shows up at The Bar a few days later, one hand braced on her hip behind her gun, Margo nearly drops the glass she’s washing. She feels like there are many sets of eyes on her, despite the place being nearly empty. The crowds had dispersed after the anniversary leaving a pleasant lull in business.

“Hey,” Margo says, managing to get the word out without a stutter.

“Hey yourself.” Rhonda slides onto a stool, leans on the bar with her elbows. “Can I get a glass of water?”

It’s hot outside and Margo can see sweat beading around Rhonda’s temples, her upper lip. She swallows. “Sure thing.”

“I’d order something stronger, but I drove here.” Rhonda drinks the whole thing in a few quick gulps, sets the glass on the bar. She palms at her forehead. “Jesus. It’s a real scorcher today.”

“Yeah.” Margo feels like an idiot. She’s shitty when she’s defensive, she can feel sarcasm welling up. It takes a concerted effort to squash it. “What brings you here?”

“Oh, you know.” Rhonda glances the clock behind Margo. “What time does this place close today?”

_It’s a bar, we’re open late_ is on the tip of Margo’s tongue. But Rhonda knows that. She used to hang around while Margo closed up at 3am. This seems like a loaded question, Margo thinks. She shrugs. “Whenever I decide.”

“Hmm.” Rhonda rolls the glass between her hands. She’s as close to nervous as Margo’s ever seen her. “When do you usually decide?”

Margo’s therapist had often asked her what she wanted. She always had an answer but it never seemed to be the right one. Whenever women came up – which was frequently, her therapist was like a dog with a bone – she would ask: _what do you want? Who do you want? Why won’t you let yourself?_ Just before she quit, Margo had snapped. _Because I’m not a dyke_ , she had said, tasting bile at the back of her throat. Her therapist had looked disappointed in her.

_What do you want?_ Time is ticking by, she hasn’t answered. Rhonda’s expression is even, carefully neutral, but there’s something disappointed in the line of her mouth.

Margo hopes Rhonda can’t see her white-knuckling the counter. “I’m actually about done. Now.”

Rhonda’s expression is one of blank surprise. “Well. Not worried about losing business?”

“Not especially.” Margo dries her hands, tosses the towel down. She turns to the only other person there. “Excuse me, sir, we’re closing.”

In no time Margo finds herself standing on the sizzling sidewalk locking up. Rhonda is shifting from foot to foot minutely. “My truck again?” she asks, nodding in the direction of the back lot. Margo nods.

The drive this time is tense. It’s a nice kind, the kind that promises upcoming excitement, but Margo’s not good with tension. Her usual strategy is to talk to fill the silence but she can’t figure out what to say. Nothing seems worth it.

When they get to Rhonda’s house Margo follows her across the lawn, through the front door, to the living room. She hovers in the doorway as Rhonda removes her gun and badge. There’s just something so intimate about watching Rhonda transform from cop to something else, shedding her professional layers. Margo had been surprised the first time she saw Rhonda off-duty. A blue shirt, the most feminine thing she’s ever seen her wear, the day Tanner Bolt left Missouri. Margo doesn’t think that she has layers like that. She’s the same person all the time. It’s exhausting.

“Drink?” Rhonda asks, turning to Margo. “I’ve got more of that beer.”

_What do you want?_ "Don’t need a drink,” Margo says, and her voice sounds more sure than she feels. “That’s not why I’m here.”

“And why are you here?”

“You’re gonna make me say it?”

“I’m not gonna make you do anything.”

The words make Margo’s knees go to jelly, and she refuses to examine that in any way. The want is a tangible thing now, sticking in the back of her throat, making it hard to breathe.

“You sure I can’t get you that beer?” Rhonda half-smiles, gently joking. “You look like you could use one.”

Margo isn’t sure where the nerve comes from, but she crosses the room. She’s standing right in front of Rhonda now. Rhonda doesn’t move, doesn’t react, just cocks her head slightly. Her face is perfectly neutral in a way that suggests it’s intentional. She’s letting Margo come to her, like a skittish animal.

Margo makes a noise of frustration and pitches forward, curls a hand around the back of Rhonda’s neck to steady herself, and kisses her. It’s a complicated burst of relief and horror when Rhonda kisses her back, settling hands on Margo’s waist. Rhonda pulls back after a moment, and her eyes are dark and serious when she asks: “Bedroom?”

Margo nods. It’s why she’s here. She follows Rhonda to the small room at the back of the house that she hasn’t been in before. Rhonda sits on the edge of the bed to unlace her boots. The air feels close and urgent, and Margo can’t handle the anticipation anymore. She steps out of her shoes and lets Rhonda reel her in to stand between Rhonda’s knees.

Margo’s hands are shaking and she pauses on the buttons of her shirt. “Help me, Rhonda,” she half-sings jokingly, desperate to break the moment, puncture the seriousness of it. “You must get that a lot.”

“Not as much as you’d think.” Rhonda relieves Margo of her button-down. Underneath, she’s wearing a strappy tank in an embarrassing pale pink, thrown on in the semi-darkness of the morning when the only criteria is that it passes a sniff-test. Margo feels herself flush. _Girly_ , chants the voice in her head, the voice that she usually attributes to Nick. _Girly, girly Margo. Pink and girly and blushing_. It’s too tight, it hugs her all over.

“Pretty,” Rhonda says, and it comes out on an exhale, almost as if she didn’t mean to say it. Margo’s flush is definitely visible now, hot and shameful across her face, down her neck.

“Shuddup,” she mutters.

“Y’don’t get told that enough, I bet.” Rhonda’s hands play around the hem of Margo’s tank, not really doing much, just fluttering against skin. “Not when it really matters.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing. Just a hunch.” Rhonda’s kissing her then, and Margo forgets about the colour of her shirt, raises her arms so that Rhonda can pull it up and off. Rhonda gets her hands on Margo’s skin and it’s almost too much, it almost hurts with how badly Margo wants it, her body oversensitive and raw as she undoes her bra, unbuttoning Rhonda’s slacks with still-trembling fingers.

Rhonda is careful with her and that is worse, somehow, than Margo had imagined. It makes Margo want to yell at Rhonda. Terrified of what she might say, Margo bites down on her knuckle, then Rhonda’s shoulder, then the inside of own cheek, and keeps quiet.

After, lying on top of Rhonda’s sensible grey duvet, Margo lets Rhonda thread their fingers together. “I really didn’t think this is where the night was headed,” Rhonda says. “I thought to myself, Rhonda, you’re being a damn fool. She turned you down, and here you are, coming back for more.”

“So why did you bother?”

“Couldn’t help myself. Had to try one more time.”

“You barely made a pass, the first time,” Margo says, trying to ignore the heat in her cheeks, the discomfort of discussing this out loud. “I’m not a fucking mind reader.”

“You knew. You high-tailed it outta there, second I laid hands on you.”

Margo winces. “I – you’re making me sound like a nervous virgin.” Rhonda is silent, and a thought occurs to Margo. “Wait – did you think I’d never –? With a woman?”

“Well, I didn’t want to get my hopes up, let’s put it that way.”

“Jesus – so you were gonna deflower me, huh? You’d have been alright with that?”

Rhonda’s eyes are so warm. Margo can’t look away, even as she squirms. “If you had wanted me to. Would’ve been honoured, in fact.”

“I – shut up.”

They stay curled up on the bed until the sun begins to set and the house gets dark. Rhonda gets up to turn on a light, and then tells Margo she’s going to make tea. Margo knows that Rhonda is giving her time to collect herself. She is helpless to the wave of resentment that brings.

Margo thinks about Nick, across town. Thinks about him lying in bed beside Amy. She knows they have started having sex again, she recognizes it in him, the way he carries himself. He was always so obvious about it. She always knew when he was getting laid in high school and college; he never had to tell her. Now it’s a different kind of open secret, one they both pretend to ignore. If Nick and Amy are having sex then everything is working out. If Nick and Amy are having sex, then Amy has won.

Margo wonders if Nick feels trapped. Wonders if he feels disgusting, after.

She knows, deep down, that he doesn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> tw: very slightly implied incest (feelings; not actions), alcoholism, misogyny (internalized and otherwise), internalized homophobia, misogynistic and homophobic slurs


End file.
